


Microwave Cooking for Bachelors

by katuman



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Canon Universe, Established Relationship, Frottage, Humor, M/M, Modern Day, Smut, austria has a sense of humor in there somewhere and canon be damned, in that a relationship of a sort has previously been established
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 08:24:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10272359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katuman/pseuds/katuman
Summary: Austria attempts to prove himself as a Certified Adult With Life Skills™ by learning to cook. He also gets laid. 10/10





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea how a one-off joke turned into this but I'm sure it'll all make sense by the end.

In retrospect he probably should have read the directions, but such is the hubris of man.

Wiping the steam from his glasses and a bit of potato starch from his nose, Austria turned the box over and scrutinized it.

 _Instant Knödel_ , it read.

 _Boil IN the bag_.

"Fuck me."

At any rate, it explained the hot mess on the stove: box dumplings were not meant to bob freely... for an hour or more. Some blame probably lay on the manufacturer, Austria felt, because an "instant" was an entirely subjective and arbitrary unit of measurement.

Tossing the empty container into the garbage (to be retrieved two hours later when the urge to recycle compelled him), Austria sank to the floor. His legs ached something terrible, and the oversized, irredeemable concert shirt that Prussia had gifted him now smelled like rank sweat and old paprika.

The temptress—microwave goulash—sat on the countertop, beckoning him for the third night in a row.

He swatted at it with a dishtowel and scowled.

Austria was not so bold as to think he would master the art of home cooking in under a week, but this learning curve was something he hadn't expected. A beginner's attempt at puff pastry had probably been too ambitious—a pot of boiled carrot-and-turnips edible but ultimately unappetizing. He had been doing rather well with the wienerschnitzel up until the point where he'd over-salted it (and eaten it anyway, out of spite), but at the end of each day he continued to inhabit a purgatory of cold pickle sandwiches and convenience food. It was quite a change from eight centuries living off of the labor of the royal bakers, but it tasted better than the decades of army rations that followed.

" _Fuck you._ " he chided the cheery white plastic carton of goulash that lay on the floor. "I will not yield."

* * *

He was still wearing his clothes when he awoke the next morning, peckish and with a slight crick in his neck. Austria hoisted a leg over the back of the couch, shied away from the impertinent glare of the sun, and had every intention of returning to sleep when the dull pain in his backside emitted a buzz. He fumbled around and fished the mobile phone out of his pocket; at the top of the queue was a message from Belgium.

_"text me if you remembered to turn off the stove"_

Austria snorted. A classic, amateur error. That he may or may not have committed in the previous weeks.

Mustering his dignity and his jeans and glasses and socks, he wrote: _"Yes. Yes I did."_

_"goed! how did it go"_

The kitchen was still as much of a mess as he'd left it, and the knödel had coagulated and dried to the sides of the pot. Austria sniffed cautiously at the whole lot of it.

_"There were some difficulties."_

Thereby followed a definitive pause.

_"oh no"_

_"you didnt"_

_"you didn't read the instructions again"_

_"didnt u"_

Austria made a face that little words on a screen unfortunately could not convey, and set about pouring dish-soap and hot water into the sink.

_"ok seriously have you thought about asking Germany?"_

_"just to help you out with basics???"_

He considered this for a few minutes while scrubbing.

_"cmon man”_

_“he’s a giant baby”_

_“he would probably cry with actual joy if you came to him for advice. (on the inside… after a couple of beers)"_

Or with frustration, if he ever learned that Austria preferred to estimate measurements.

_“I can't. This is a matter of National Pride."_

He yanked open his fridge, gazed into the profound emptiness of the void and the package of raw meat staring out of it, and kicked the door shut with his foot.

_“try not to die in pursuit of it oostenrijk"_

The pantry contained sardines, potatoes, a carrot, and baking supplies that were as yet untouched. Very little of it was appetizing in the immediate sense, and unfortunately immediacy and convenience were high on his list of priorities. True, Austria did not particularly NEED to be fed to survive—none of them did—but his stomach seemed uncomfortably human in its bottomless desire for food.

 _"I am in possession of a great deal of chocolate."_ he paused with an air of solemnity between the two missives. "Do I dare?"

 _"d a r e"_ came the reply (with multiple and perfunctory exclamation points). _"sacHER TORTE"_

Austria laughed in spite of himself, mollified just a little by the unreasonable amount of faith that Belgium seemed to have in him and his abilities. _"I don't know that I have the skill set required for this. I had something simpler in mind."_

Like eating an entire kilo of chocolate for breakfast and regretting all of his choices in life.

_"do it anyway. and send pics. send me a cake i am hungry"_

_"Go make your own food.”_ he chided. _“I have guests coming for lunch.”_

_"i cant asshole i am literally being held hostage. in bed"_

A picture—the bottom half of a woman’s scowl—appeared on his screen in spite of an apparent attempt to shield herself from the sun. And to the left of her, luxuriating in the sprawl of Monaco’s tawny hair was Belgium herself, grinning a shit-eating grin and feigning a swoon for the camera.

_"look at this. look at **her**. i am **powerless** "_

_“Braggart.”_ Austria correctly observed.

_"you're just jealous"_

_"If you say so. I’m going to go shower and then touch something raw I suppose.”_

_“kinky"_ the text message winked.

* * *

_Behold: chicken,_ Austria thought to himself as he examined the unfortunate bits of beast in the smoldering cast iron pan. Once there had been a noble creature with both skin and giblets intact. And now it was little more than its parts, sold at very attractive discount at Lidl for the benefit of men who were not prepared to go elbow-deep into a bird's rectum. Aside from a wilted carrot and some undercooked root vegetables his Sunday brunch wasn't much for the presentation, but Prussia and Germany probably wouldn't be feeling so picky after a seven-hour drive from Berlin.

God help them.

Austria tossed a few peppercorns for good luck, shoved the pan back in the oven to warm, and threw himself into a chair. _“Running your own household is exceedingly difficult.”_ he typed—and then, as an afterthought: _"But overall, I would call it a satisfying experience."_

_“mmm my money says you haven’t cleaned anything yet"_

Austria sniffed, and purposely ignored sorry state of the counter. _"I changed my shirt. Washed my hands even."_

_“incredible, truly. how are the dorks?"_

_"Soon to be arriving,"_ he paused. _"But I've got at least half an hour, I think."_ Glancing at his watch to confirm had turned out to be horrible fucking mistake. _"...I have five minutes."_

_"im laughing at you."_

Austria did not doubt for a moment that she was. Raucously. He wandered over to the stove and observed the potatoes a little, as the mockery kept rolling in.

_"so i take it this isnt a red wine & white tie sorta shindig”_

_“It really is not.”_

_“not gonna set a good example for little lutz with your suit jacket?”_

As if.

_“maybe dress a little bit swanky for gil?"_

_"God no."_ Austria rolled his eyes. " _They should consider themselves lucky I’m feeding him."_ The unfamiliar strain of a smile tugged at his lips as he set the mobile facedown, reconsidered, and scrambled to tap at it a bit more facetiously.

Time had taken the edge of formality with it. Austria had fought it at first, with increasing futility as kerosene gave way to electricity and gentility to realpolitik. Slowly and grudgingly and in fits he had come to accept it: he was no longer the seat of the empire, this was not a luncheon at Schönbrunn, and Prussia and Germany were not calling on behalf of their heads of state to play politics with him.

Still, observing himself through the lens of his phone he was also forced to acknowledge that he was long overdue for a haircut, and maybe something less ostentatious than a souvenir shirt from a Scorpions concert.

_"have fun catching salmonella together i guess"_

And Austria had every intention of replying when he heard the front door slam and remembered that he had given Germany a spare key. _"Later."_ he wrote, but not quickly enough.

"Oh holy shit." somebody whistled. "You actually wore it."

It was a purely involuntary reaction—muscle memory—the way the corners of his mouth started to turn upward into a... something at the sound of Prussia's harsh dialect. The man looked more pleased with himself than anyone, or anything, had any right to look under Austria’s roof. Like an actual pig in shit.

And Austria grinned back at him. "Don't fucking start."

"Didn't say nothing." Prussia raised his arms in a lazy mockery of a surrender and leaned into the doorway. His long legs curled and contracted en pointe as he stretched them, one at a time, the sound of a dozen joints popping at once. And his eyes lingered approvingly on him. "It's a good look for you, though: the 20th century. Finally.”

Austria honestly could not say the same for him and his flannels. "It's serviceable," he admitted. Pretty comfortable too.

Prussia opened his mouth to say something else just as Germany, bearer and nurturer of diplomacy, poked his head in behind him with a bottle of wine and an air of determination.

“Guten tag.”

Austria waggled his fingers. The pointed look in Germany's eyes clearly wasn’t for him, judging by the way Prussia drew his arms in, defensively, over his chest. “You uh. You need something, kiddo?”

Germany shook his head. “Ah. No. How is everyone doing today?”

Austria struggled to maintain his composure. “Well, thank you.”

“Yeah, Lutz. _Really good_." Prussia nodded. _Motherfucker, are we being chaperoned?_ —that desperately mortified grimace of his seemed to say. "Very friendly and shit."

Germany looked at Austria for confirmation. “Good?”

“Good.”

"Good." Germany coughed, and he did not appear half as confident in his stance as he sounded. "I should... I brought… Barbaresco."

"Yeah you should probably do that."

If he didn't quite understand what he'd bumbled his way into, it seemed that Germany at least understood that he was in over his head. Troubled and disapproving in equal measure he fled to do God only knew what with the drinks.

Prussia watched him turn the corner, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “What the fuck happened just now?”

“I have no idea.” Austria let out the laugh he’d been holding. The furrow-lines receded from Prussia’s features, replaced by something self-satisfied, restless. He crossed the kitchen with slow, easy strides: sidled up to him with his back to the counter.

“I'm glad you had a good time." he said.

Austria nudged him. "Seeing your brother put his foot on his mouth? Always."

"Haha. You're a prick, Österreich; you know what I mean." He flicked a hand across Austria's shirt, near a starchy spot he's just noticed.

"It was a good show," he admitted.

Prussia looked down at him. "Think you might do it again?"

"With you?" said Austria cooly. "I'd rather be shot." There was a subtle hint of cologne about him, but it didn't smell like anything Germany owned. Didn't smell like anything Prussia could have borrowed at the very last minute. He nestled closer. Curiosity. "Well. I might. Your taste in music isn't... entirely awful." Oh, oh that actually HURT. He would regret admitting to this over dinner.

"Wow." Prussia whispered, cocking his head, close enough now that his nose nearly grazed Austria's hair. " You hear that? That's the sound of Schoenberg rolling in his grave."

"Schoenberg is dead." he muttered, like a fool. “He can’t do that.” But God, Prussia looked _good_. Everywhere. Better than he had in _years_. The sallow had gone from his face, replaced by a healthy pink from his cheeks to his sharp, strong nose. Austria had always liked Prussia’s nose, just a little bit. All of its slight imperfections from being broken and knocked back in place—and how cool it had felt in spite of the heat of his breath, pressed to his skin in the middle of a 2am crowd. Very, very close. “You—” he began, but the rest of it caught somewhere inside of him. All that came out was a laugh.

“You wanna fuck?” Prussia asked.

Austria nodded, and kissed him.

And God, he tasted exactly like Prussia; like like a small, stupid, vindictive, black-coffee-drinking old fool. Like a man six months off of a smoking habit and craving. Intolerable confidence and unmerited pride. He was all teeth and no grace. All the refinement of a bladdered soldier of fortune and none of the mystery, drawing Austria closer and kneading his ass like he hadn't had a proper fuck in over a decade. Austria’s hands found their way under his shirt, around the small of his back where there weren’t so many fucking buttons and Prussia ground into his hips with a sharp intake of breath.

Elsewhere he heard the front door slam, and then… silence. "Well shit, that's our cue," Prussia muttered, grazing the edge of his ear. "We've got… twenty two minutes."

Austria looked down at the floor. It was not… clean. But, there was room enough atop Prussia to avoid having to touch it in any meaningful way. “Good,” he breathed, and shoved him back against the counter. Austria went after his shirt, but Prussia went right for the jugular, canines and all, fingers in his hair like a vice, knee between his legs as Austria fumbled stupidly with the belt. “ _Oh_. Somebody’s happy to see me,”

“God, Preußen. _Shut the fuck up_.”

Prussia inhaled his undignified laughter, swallowed it, and gave it back to him as a throaty sound from somewhere deep in his chest. Nudged at him. “Couch?”

Austria shook his head. “Floor.”

“We’re gonna try that again.” Prussia said, discarding his jeans. Hands on his hips but it wasn’t quite like any dance Austria was used to—being walked backwards, stumbling every time he grew bold and lunged for his stupid mouth. Prussia stopped himself at the sofa, with a smile that said "what can you do?" and let himself free-fall with blissful, lazy determination, leaving Austria to undress.

And God it was good, it was _good_ seeing him like this.

Gilbert fucking Beilschmidt divested of his old glory and his uniform blues perhaps but _alive_ , hard-on in hand as if he were caesar still. This smug, ridiculous, towheaded brigand—muscled and lean from a long military life—looking up at him, flushed all the way down to his chest, where the traces left by Austria’s bitten nails grew more livid. "Are we gonna do it,” he smirked, arching his eyebrows. “Or you just gonna admire me?”

They were both fools and Austria just couldn't fucking help himself. He climbed him like he’d never learned to climb a tree: got a hand around his cock, around Prussia’s, pressed them together, and started to stroke. Prussia tensed, his lopsided smile twisting as he sucked in a breath. " _Jesus_ ," he gasped, shifting eagerly into his hand. Austria nodded, slack-jawed nodded in agreement, nothing clever to say, and Prussia’s fingers digging into his ribs with every roll of his hips. He liked the way Prussia looked up at him; eyes slightly unfocused, brow furrowed, lips swollen from the hard press of his teeth. The low, happy, rough noises he made and the heat of his thighs pressing into his ass.

Austria had long stopped being anything nearly as coherent as _that_. "God—you—" he laughed.

“Good. Yeah. Fucking _good_." Prussia rasped. His voice was harsh in between shallow breaths, tense now and painfully hard. His low groans of delight somewhere between a drunk and a rutting beast and so much better than anything else. Austria barely knew what he was doing over the roar of his blood in his ears and it probably didn’t matter; his cock had the right idea, his hand rigid and desperate. And Prussia was full of a million fucking profanities. He offered them like a low grunting mockery of a crescendo, until he finally arched, came so hard that Austria felt it, and pushed him over the edge.

* * *

Germany said absolutely nothing to _either_ of them. Austria watched him subtly take note of Prussia’s wet hair, Austria’s change of clothes, the window that hadn’t been open before, and decided that he simply did not want to know. He slipped past the two of them with a mutter about setting the table and only a brief, apprehensive look over his shoulder—as if he half expected them to do something untoward while he was out of the room.

“The food’s probably warm still.” Austria shrugged. He had, in fact, remembered to turn off the stove and the oven this time around. Prussia gave him a look. “What?”

“You’re a fucking show-off is what.” Prussia grinned. He flicked the high collar of Austria’s sweater with a satisfied sigh. "And you bruise like a peach.”


End file.
